‘Time to extend your tour, “Uncle”,’ said Fabius with a wink.
He dodged down an alleyway, Aquila following, their feet echoing off the walls as they raced away, emerging into another street running parallel. Fabius dived across that and into a second alley, this one going steeply downhill until they emerged into the marketplace near the Forum. Fabius stopped running and began walking at a normal pace, weaving his way through the stalls, eyes and hands ranging all over the place. By the time they had reached the other side he was able to offer Aquila fruit, vegetables and an iron poker.
‘Just the thing for a chilly night, eh, “Uncle”?’
Aquila laughed; it was the middle of summer, the hottest time of year. ‘You’re probably the only customer he’s had all day.’
The eyes shot up in genuine alarm. ‘You’re right. The poor sod is probably starvin’.’ Fabius turned round and retraced his steps. He gave the bewildered stallholder his poker back, plus all the fruit and vegetables he had snatched from the other stalls.
‘Eat hearty, brother,’ he said fulsomely, patting the ironmonger on the back. ‘Winter will be here soon, and you can rest easy. If I ever need any irons for my fire, you’ll be the first man I’ll come to, and I’ll recommend you to my friends.’
They were walking out of the marketplace, leaving the perplexed trader scratching his head, when Fabius spoke again. ‘One thing, “Uncle”. If you don’t mind me saying so, you should get your hair shorn. It’s bad enough you being head and shoulders tall and still growin’, but your hair, bein’ the colour it is, and the length you wear it, makes you stick out like a sore thumb.’
CHAPTER TWO
Servius Caepio had the good grace to admit that he was no soldier, which earned him nothing but gratitude from those junior officers he had inherited on taking command in Spain. Many a serving consul, fresh from Rome, shared the fault but was blind to it; with only twelve months in office they were impatient to lead their troops into action and, since senior officers, quaestors and legates were that same consul’s appointees, it was rare that anyone sought to check their ambitions. This had in the past, inevitably, cost a number of lives — Roman, auxiliaries and native levies — sacrificed to no other purpose than a senatorial reputation. With his small frame and foxy features, Servius was what he looked, a natural intriguer, a man who had climbed to prominence by his slavish adherence to the cause of senatorial pre-eminence, as expounded by Lucius Falerius Nerva.
Warrior or not, his cohorts were forced to fight many a skirmish, since the frontier was never really at peace, though he did everything he could to keep the conflict in a low key. This sensible approach had nothing to do with modesty. Servius Caepio yearned for military success with as much passion as any of his peers; it was what he faced, allied to what he had at his disposal, which induced caution; that and the instructions he had brought with him from Lucius Falerius.
His mentor had been mistaken in his estimation of the main Celt-Iberian leader. Lucius saw Brennos as a pest certainly, but one that could be contained as he had been in the original campaign fought by Aulus Cornelius. Let him skulk in the interior, with his fantasies about the destruction of Rome, with himself at the head of some great Celtic confederacy. It might have happened before, but Lucius Falerius insisted Rome was too strong now for such nonsense, quite apart from the fractious nature of the beast Brennos was trying to assemble. No two Celts ever agreed about anything; millions there might be, but Rome was homogenous, they were splintered.
Yet faced with the actual physical presence of Brennos, he seemed more dangerous than he had been in Lucius’s study. Defeated many years before by Aulus Cornelius, he had retired to lick his wounds, but he had come back with a vengeance in his takeover of the tribe of the Duncani and their hill fort of Numantia. His usurpation had been bloody; having married Cara, the favourite daughter of the elderly chief, Brennos, a one-time Druid bound to celibacy, broke that vow. But he also broke by threat, sword and secret murder the resistance of anyone who stood in his way. He had then attacked the neighbouring tribes, taking back from them lands stolen over the years from an elderly chieftain more interested in wine and fornication than the defence of his patrimony.
His next success was to turn a natural fortress blessed by terrain — high bluffs, natural escarpments, a fertile plateau and a constant supply of water — a place in which the added walls had once been allowed to fall into a near-ruin, into the most daunting stronghold in the whole Iberian Peninsula. Numantia provided security in a troubled land, so the itinerant had flocked to the place, turning it from a hill fort into a bustling town; it had become not only a place to defend, but a base from which to attack Rome. Year on year Brennos was getting stronger, with more men to do his bidding and fewer neighbours able to stand against his wishes. When the chieftains tried, Brennos suborned their younger warriors, holding out his vision, encouraging them to attack the Roman coastal provinces, his aim to keep the border alight.
His own devious nature allowed Servius to see clearly the temptations the man offered, the most obvious conclusion being that patience, as a policy, might prove unworkable. Brennos was clever, a man who dangled opportunity before greedy Roman eyes, the enticing prospect of a victory large enough to earn the winner a triumph to match any that had gone before. His hill fort, Numantia, might be near-impregnable, but there were others less formidable, and therefore more tempting — Pallentia, halfway to Numantia between the coastal plain and the deep interior, being one such. Brennos let it be known that an attack on that hill fort would draw him to its defence, creating the prospect that, out in the open, he could be defeated by superior Roman discipline. There was an obvious flaw to this dream of glory; it might be Brennos who won, which would leave the whole of Spain at his mercy. What could he achieve then?
Not prepared to risk defeat, possible death, and at the very least certain disgrace, Servius Caepio had come round to Lucius’s view that, other methods failing, Brennos should be assassinated, preferably by someone who could not command the succession. This would lead to the break-up of the confederation of tribes Brennos already dominated, and that in turn would get them back to warring with each other rather than Rome, bringing peace to the border. Let them fight for their mountains and valleys as much as they liked.
One of the assets vital to a good intriguer is the ability to listen, because only by doing this can he find his opponent’s weakness. Servius listened to the centurions who had been stationed in Spain for years, just as he did to those Celts who sought protection and peace with Rome. The governor was patient with these client chieftains, garnering nuggets of information from the midst of their endemic Celtic boasting, but most of all he courted the Greeks, who, being in trade, of necessity needed to take a long view. The two who sat with him now had plenty to relate.
As a race, the Romans had a sharp and immediate sense of their own history; to them, Hannibal, the Carthaginian general who had annihilated two Roman armies and ravaged the whole of Italy, was no distant memory, he was yesterday. The sack of Rome by the Celtic tribes, under another Brennos, over two hundred years before Hannibal’s invasion, seemed like last week. The Greeks’ protectors knew this, and took some delight in ensuring that the threat Brennos represented seemed real.
Servius Caepio heard, behind their doom-laden words, the hint of the greed he sought. He needed the knowledge of these men who passed regularly back and forth between Emphorae and Numantia, men who could provide a picture of life in the fortress; who could detail the habits and hopes of those with some prominence, warriors perhaps, who at present stood in the shadow of Brennos. But they would not speak for nothing, while he was reluctant to offer an outright bribe, because for gold they might tell him what he wanted to hear. He needed to tempt them to speak, and if possible to do so without paying them so much as a copper ass.
‘No Roman could go near Numantia and hope to keep his head,’ he said, ‘yet we desire an end to this constant upheaval so I must find a way of approaching Brennos. If I can open up a dialogue, who knows what may flow from it.’
‘Peace,’ replied one of the Greeks, sententiously, ‘and from the blessings of that flows prosperity.’
Servius looked him straight in the eye. ‘Those who achieved such a thing could command their own reward.’
‘As you say, Excellency, not a Roman, yet neither, I fear, could the task be entrusted to a Celt.’
‘Brennos is suspicious of his own race,’ said the second Greek trader. ‘A man with such power must be suspicious of everybody.’
‘Naturally.’
